


Waste Places of the Sky

by saltandlimes



Series: Whoever Fights Monsters [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Evil Ben Solo, Jedi Ben Solo, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, Monsters au, Torture, of an original male character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the war still rages, Ben Solo can hide the need in battles, draw on the Dark in moments few and far between. But all wars must end. </p><p>Needs do not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waste Places of the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Find ficlets and headcanons for the Monsters AU [here on tumblr](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/monsters_au)
> 
> There is, in fact, already a sequel to this: [The Monsters We Keep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7335592)

> _Impersonal monsters, namely, Immensities. Until a person has thought out the stars and their inter-spaces, he has hardly learnt that there are things much more terrible than monsters of shape, namely, monsters of magnitude without known shape. Such monsters are the voids and waste places of the sky... In these our sight plunges quite beyond any twinkler we have yet visited. Those deep wells for the human mind to let itself down into, leave alone the human body! and think of the side caverns and secondary abysses to right and left as you pass on!..._

> -Thomas Hardy, _Two on a Tower_  
> 

The saber whirs in a tight circle, violet meeting green in a flash of light. And Ben breaths out, lets himself flow through the forms. And he gets lost in the play, the stretch and burn of his muscles as he dances across the training ground.

And then, he stumbles. 

There's a rock, something embedded in the sawdust floor that wasn't there the last time he trained. Something that has him struggling to catch himself, flinging an arm up, the saber sliding in a desperate arc to knock away his opponent's blade.

And something snaps. 

Before he knows it, before he can even make a guess at what he's about to do, he's flinging a hand out, Force flowing through him in a torrent that breaks down every barrier. That shatters the walls around him, and it's all he can feel, breathe, think. And there's ice in his veins, sharpness that he's never felt before, a crackling of stones under cool water, a sludgy bubble of power that fills him up. And fear, hate, lust, it boils through him like cold so harsh it burns. 

And then Ben knows what it is. Just like that, knows with all the certainty of the pulsing through his veins that it is the Dark. Lets go.

He collapses into the dirt. 

***

It's only later, settled in his mother's office, that he learns what happened. Hears the litany of broken bones and bruises that his lost of control wrote. And Leia smiles at him, face grave but kind, understanding, calm as ever. 

“It happens, Ben.” Ben sighs. Not to her. Not to Luke. Not even to him, most of the time. It's been years. And he'd forgotten the feel, the torrential rush through him that feels like life and breathe and everything that holds meaning in the world. Leia leans forward, must see something in his face. 

“Ben. I'm going to be honest with you. There's a war coming. You know that. And during wars, well... things happen. Things that you wouldn't let happen if the world were at peace. Things that you might regret.” Ben nods, isn't sure what she's getting at. Leia lets out a long huff of breath, seems to gather herself. 

“During the rebellion, I didn't understand about the Force. You have to remember, Ben, that Luke and I didn't even know we were siblings until the war was almost over. And so I... used my anger in ways that I now know was not right. But it happens, and you have to accept that. And I just want to make sure that if something similar happens to you, you won't berate yourself about it.” She laughs. “I know you like to do that.”

Ben licks at his split lip, tastes the copper of blood. It sounds remarkably like... but no, that's not possible. His mother cannot be giving him permission. No, no she's simply trying to make sure he doesn't get upset. So he nods again, smiles. 

“I'll remember.” And he will, he's certain of it. He could never forget that feeling, never forget being _alive._

***

When the news reaches them of the destruction of Hosnian Prime, Ben is on Serenno. The First Order has been trying to claim the former Separatist planet for months. And Ben is here as a distraction from a far more important mission. 

A mission which must have failed. Because Poe Dameron was supposed to find out enough about the First Order's new superweapon to destroy it. But if the reports coming through the coms are correct, the New Republic has been shattered, Dameron is missing, and the First Order is turning its attention to the Resistance. 

Ben wonders what it looked like. 

He felt it, of course. 

Thousands and thousands of voices, billions, all screaming together in agony. Pain beyond measure. Fear that pulsed through the galaxy like a firestorm. A moment of choice. 

Because he could have tried to weather that storm, to breathe deep, hold the Light inside. To release his hatred into the living Force and be emptied, cleansed as the loss rolled through him. To accept, to be one with that great new hole in the fabric of the galaxy. 

But Ben has never been good at acceptance. No, nor at being cleansed. 

Instead he bit down on the inside of his mouth, teeth tearing into soft flesh. And he reveled in it. The pain. The hurt. The anger. And instead of emptied, he was filled to the brim. Like water being poured into ground too dry, parched for it, and it wasn't enough. The horror of Hosnian Prime, of those voices twisting the Dark around him, warping the Force into a maelstrom centered on Ben, around his upraised hand. 

And Ben knows it is never enough, not when he lets himself feel it. It's too good, too sweet, even with the pain of destruction ripping though him. Even with the agony of billions of deaths giving him life. It's never enough. 

Every time he breaks down his walls, opens himself to the Dark just for a moment, it is as though he's taking a drink of ice cold water on a burning day. It's a flood of release, every emotion he's never been allowed to have. And as those dying voice shatter the living Force around him, it is sweeter than any fruit, a sickly scent of decay that makes his stomach turn, that makes him ache for more. 

He'd flung a hand out in that moment, shattered First Order walkers to bits with the sheer force of it. 

Broken their forces. 

Decimated them, just as the New Republic blew to pieces somewhere far away. 

And he wonders, now, thinking back, what it looked like. 

Was it beautiful?

***

The Force flows through, crackles as he leaps over charred rubble. And he doesn't know why the First Order has chosen to destroy this, of all planets, months after their last major strike. Months after the destruction of their sun-gulping weapon. Doesn't know why they'd waste their failing resources on this. 

But Lothal is as good a planet as any to swing his saber. 

It's as good a planet as any to kill on. 

And he doesn't even think of it anymore, just opens himself up, lets it flow through him. Lets the Dark collect in his bones as he dances through the ranks of waiting stormtrooper. Lets it crack bones, shatter spines. Laughs as the pain fills him, shatters him. As he's stained crimson, nothing more than a flashing violet blade and a storm of fear and hatred. 

They yield in front of him. 

They always do now. 

He's heard the whispers. That Ben Solo is more terrifying than the troopers. That with Ben Solo on their side, they are invincible, but cross him and you are not likely to see another day. It makes him want to laugh. 

A lot of things make him want to laugh these day. 

Joy. It's an emotion, forbidden. Hate. Fear. Pain. So much pain – of a blaster through his shoulder weeks ago. They caught that on holocam, he thinks. It's being replayed, the brave hero of the Resistance facing down the forces of the First Order, swinging his saber one handed, determined, focused. 

There are things the holocam can't capture though. 

The way he let the pain rush through him. The way that the chill tingled in his fingers, trembling darkness and pulsing need with every throb of blood through torn veins. The way that he wants to cry, to scream, to laugh, all at the same time, an overload of sensation that he's denied himself for so long. A whole world that he only gets to have in these moments. 

That he longs for.

And so he whirls across the battlefield, feels the splash of blood, flesh, the splatter across his face. 

And is alive. 

***

When they finally destroy First Order high command, Ben feels empty. 

It's not the fact that most of the top ranking officers have escaped. That's a gnawing annoyance, a throb in the back of his skull, but not enough to fill him up, or enough to wipe him clean. No, this is something deeper. 

Awareness. 

Because Ben knows what the end of the war means. And in those last moments, when he slices through the few remaining officers that charge at their troops, calls in the airstrike that will destroy both the Supreme Leader of the First Order and the hulking palace he has built for himself, he wonders, just for an instant, what would happen if he did not let the war end. 

If he found some way to prolong it. To shore up the First Order, give them the aid they need, just for one more day, for one more instant. 

Just so that he doesn't have to give this up. 

So that Ben Solo, resistance hero, holocast star, the leader of the new Jedi, the knight, so he is not _everything._ So that the man who has started (no, not started) to seep through will still be there. The man whose name echoes in his head, unspoken, conjured from the depths of something that flutters inside him as he lets the Dark consume him, as he sprints, faster than his feet should carry him, carried along by the pulse of the living Force. 

The name the Force has given him.

And, as the First Order crumbles around him, and he stands on the wreckage of his enemies, he morns the chance to _be_ Kylo. 

***

Holocams flash in his face as he steps out of the speeder. And he pulls his lips out, stretches them sideways in a parody of a smile. They don't notice. They never do. They crowd around him, wanting just a word, a comment, a nod from the Jedi knight. He walks past, head held high. Says nothing. Never says anything. 

Instead Ben smiles, nods to everyone and to no one, walks into the celebration. Because that is what Leia has decided he will do. 

There are interviews, of course. Exclusives, conversations with the journalists that flutter around every member of the victorious Resistance. And more. Ben is a hero. No. Ben is _the hero_. 

He saved Lothal. He rescued Polis Massa. And Delphon. And Eriadu. And Mimban. 

And most importantly, he called in the strike that broke the First Order. And he is Leia Organa's son, and a Jedi knight. And so he chats, smiles, tells them all about how the First Order can never hurt them again, about how they have finally eradicated the Empire for good. 

He doesn't watch the interviews when they air. 

They are a lie. 

And his skin itches, his heart trembles. Because it has been months, and he doesn't know how to keep going. 

When he gets inside, Poe is standing there, chatting with Finn. The deserter. Ben can't help but think of him that way, as glad as he is that Finn joined them, helped free Poe from the First Order flagship after Poe was captured trying to ferret out information about the weapon that destroyed the Hosnian system. And Ben knows he should be grateful, should be happy that Finn realized what the First Order truly was. But all he can think about when he sees the man is what it would be like to deny everything you've ever been ever believed in. Just because of a feeling. 

And he isn't jealous. He isn't. 

So he takes a deep breath, smiles at the two of them. And Poe smiles back. 

“Make it past the press alright, Ben?” Ben nods, already tired. 

“Did you see all the food, Ben?” And it's Finn, giddy, childlike in his enthusiasm. Ben sighs. 

“Yeah. Is my mother here?” He's talking to Poe, of course, only talking to Poe, but Finn takes it as a response to him as well. 

“Over there by the fountain. Hey, Ben, want to hang out later? Poe said he was going to show me some of the sights on Coruscant.” And even if Poe wasn't glaring daggers at him, Ben wouldn't agree. He doesn't think he could make it through an entire night spent with Finn. 

“Sorry. I think my mother wants to spend time together.” And Finn pouts, but Poe gives Ben a wink from behind him. And for a moment, Ben forgets about the tremble in his stomach, the need that presses against him from all sides every moment he tries to resist the pull of the Dark. 

But only for a moment. 

Because he's turning away, scanning the crowd to see Leia standing there, strong and solid in a Resistance-brown uniform. And it's just another reminder that the war is over, that they have won, and that he is a peacekeeper, a Jedi. 

Leia smiles at him, but it's a tight twist of the corner of her lips, and Ben knows she is just as nervous, just as tired of these endless events as he is. 

And she is worried about him. 

He can see it in her eyes. She sees the way his hand trembles as he takes a glass from a server – water, of course, he's a Jedi after all – and how he avoids the people who pet at his tunic, tug at it in the hopes of getting a single word with _Ben Solo._ And he smiles at them, of course, a reputation to maintain. But he does not stop, pushes through the mass until he makes it to his mother's side. 

“Ben,” and her voice is soft, welcoming. 

“Mother. How is the evening going?” The little clique around Leia clears as he starts to speak, backs away to give them space. And Ben is grateful for it. Absurdly grateful, for someone supposedly in control of themselves, washed clean of need and fear. 

“Fine. Are you enjoying yourself?” 

“I only just got here...” And at first Ben is going to make some sort of excuse, give some inane answer about not having gotten into the swing of the party yet. But there is something in Leia's eyes, something that pushes too hard for that. “Mother, how much longer do I have to do these?” He can hear his voice roughen, desperation a thin line that runs through it. “Is there no other duty I could perform, no other task?”

His breath catches as Leia stares up at him. And she is so small, this bastion of power. And he has never been as large as he should be in comparison. He has never been strong enough, not for Leia Organa, and he isn't now, not enough even to make it through a party without complaining. Leia looks at him, thoughtful, pensive. 

“Tired of Coruscant?” Her voice is light, but he can hear the true question hidden inside. 

“Incredibly.” He knows there are holocams on them, tiny mics hidden where every word can be recounted, pondered. 

“As it so happens, I do have a duty you might be well suited for.” Ben nods, true excitement threading through him as he feels her sincerity through the Force. “You have been... restless lately. And truth to be told, Coruscant is no place for a Jedi. Not anymore. You should be out, helping people, changing the galaxy.” He nods, quiet, waiting. “There are still members of First Order high command unaccounted for. I would prefer that situation change.”

And Ben smiles, wide and joyous. 

“I'll fetch them for you, mother.” And suddenly, the party doesn't seem so tiresome after all. 

***

He finds Commander Tagge in a hut on Nar Shaddaa, cowering in a shithole fit only for the washed up scum that still cling here, the remnants of the Hutt's great criminal empire. And he knows he's supposed to bring prisoners back, bring them to face justice in front of a tribunal, answer for their crimes. 

But not if they refuse to come willingly. 

And Tagge refuses. Of course, with his teeth broken in, mouth full of blood, it's hard to get a straight answer out of him, but Ben decides that it counts as a refusal. 

And really, all that matters is that he is dead.

That's all. 

So Ben decides to have some fun. 

He's had so little, these past few months. A few fights in sad little cantinas in the Outer Rim, a knife flicking out as someone tried to cut his purse, a whispered suggestion in a few heads – something more than the Jedi mind trick Luke taught him so long ago, but no one knows that. But no real fun. And he's getting restless. Impatient. 

It's happening more and more frequently. 

So he takes his time. And with his teeth all shattered, Tagge doesn't make enough noise to disturb the neighbors. So Ben can do whatever he wants. Can slip a knife from his sleeve, crowd up behind where he has Tagge tied to a chair in the middle of the dank room. And he does. Licks a long stripe over Tagge's sweaty neck, watches the man shudder at the feeling of his tongue. 

“Do you know who I am?” And Tagge makes an unintelligible gurgling sound, tries to say something. But the blood is too thick in his mouth, filling it too deeply. It's aggravating. 

“Just nod, if you're so weak you can't manage to speak.” And Tagge nods, head bobbling up and down as though on a string. “So you know who I am. Are you afraid?” Tagge doesn't seem to know how to respond, and Ben laughs, feels it shuddering up from deep in his stomach. 

“Oh, I see. You're confused. I'm _Ben Solo,_ the hero of the Resistance. Did you think we were better than this?” He bites lightly at Tagge's ear. It's a disgusting musk of filth and sweat, fear coating the man's skin. But Tagge shivers, horror pulsing off of him. And Ben drinks it in, lets it fill him up to bursting.

“Well they are better than this. But you're not dealing with the Resistance. You're dealing with me.” The knife slides smoothly into Tagge's side, then out again. Tagge tries to scream, but Ben's hand is on his throat, cutting of air, sound. “And I'm not like the rest of them.” The knife goes in again, this time to slice through the very base of Tagge's spinal column. 

“Did you feel that, Tagge?” The man is slumping in his chair, about to faint. But that won't do, won't do at all. So Ben sends a pulse of the Force out, a spark of life that sends Tagge bolt upright in the chair, eyes wide and staring. And he's not even trying to speak anymore, just gasping, gagging, blood bubbling up from his mouth, breath not able to pant. “I think I severed your spinal cord, Tagge. You'll never walk again.”

Ben laughs at himself. 

“I mean, you wouldn't be doing that anyway, but you can't feel anything down there anymore, can you? I could do such wonderful things, and you wouldn't be able to feel them. Cut off your toes, one by one, maybe?” Ben imagines it, feels his fingers tremble on the knife. It would be more beautiful even that this, would let him feel the Dark even more, let him be washed away in pain and need and wrong. 

But he doesn't have enough time, not for that. No. Even here, in this mess of a planet, filthy with the ruins of the Hutts, there is some semblance of a police force. And eventually, eventually someone will call them. So he simply strokes the knife over one of Tagge's thighs, then slow, so slow, up to his belly. 

“I'm not going to do them, though. No. I want to see you suffer, but I don't have time to do that.” And Ben drives the knife into Tagge's stomach, twists as Tagge tries to scream, no air again, or not enough to make more than a rasping, whistling cry. The knife is red, so red when he pulls it out. There's a little bit of something caught on the end, and Ben knocks it off against Tagge's cheek, the man still trying to cringe away even as his entrails threaten to spill on the floor. 

And Ben licks the rest of the knife clean, circling around to the front of the chair so Tagge can see him do it. 

The taste of blood is the taste of the Dark. 

And he walks out, leaves Tagge dying on the floor, writing in a pool of his own piss and shit and blood. 

And it's sweet. 

***

He's been chasing the last few members of the First Order's high command for months. General Tarran A. Hux, former second in command to the Supreme Leader, commander of Finalizer, the Starkiller himself is still out there. And he knows, sure and sadly, that this is one capture where he must keep control of himself. 

They need Hux alive. 

Desperately. 

They need an example, a chance to show that they are willing to dole out justice. Because, as always, his mother has put her foot in it. She's tried to argue that First Order citizens deserve full reintegration into the New Republic. And it doesn't matter that she's right, that there will be no resolution otherwise. It doesn't matter that Ben and Luke, that the Jedi have publicly agreed. No, the Resistance is in a precarious position, and Hux's accidental death won't look good for them to have on their hands. 

So Ben searches, searches without the prospect of satisfaction at the end of his hunt. 

He's almost glad when he finds Hux, and the man doesn't put up a fight. 

Almost. 

Because there is something else that puts every thought of a fight, of a quick ending out of his head. It's like a ringing bell, a thumping, resounding clang that echoes through the Force as though he's been hit in the face. 

Two halves fitting together in a single perfect whole. 

And he crosses the room with only one thought in his head. To have. To keep. 

To make Hux, this man he has never met, his, only his. 

Forever. 

Because the Dark is welling up inside him, stronger than it ever has before. And finally, finally he feels whole, emptied of the Light and filled with something that is not struggle, that is power beyond all reckoning. And he knows, just as surely as he has ever known anything, that this man is the key. 

It's a simple matter to get Hux outside. 

An offer of a better drink. 

A flick of long fingers at the back of Hux's neck, and Ben is glad that he did his research, knows how much Tarran Hux will like that. 

And then he's caressing a hand across Hux's face, catching him as he falls to the ground. And Ben carries him back to the shuttle, one arm beneath his knees and another behind his shoulders.

***

When Hux wakes up, he feels like his head has been pounded into a pulp and then hung out to dry with the rankest laundry imaginable. And at first he doesn't understand where he is, wonders if he's been dumped in a dank room to sleep off a drunk that is far worse than he should have achieved. 

But then he notices the hum from all around them. 

And Hux will never be able to forget the sound of a shuttle, not if he lives a thousand years on the surface of a planet at the back end of forever. 

He's starting up as well as he can, prying open eyes that feel as though they've been sealed shut for days. 

It's a mess. That's the first thing he notices. There is a pile of clothing in one corner, a stack of dirty dishes piled on a cabinet. He must be in a living area of some sort. The deck has streaks of grime across it. 

The next thing he notices is terror. 

Or more precisely, it's the man sitting across from him, and the terror is only incidental. 

Ben Solo. 

Hero of the Resistance, honored son of Leia Organa. Beautiful, smiling. The sign of Hux's death. 

And he's known this moment was coming ever since Snoke's citadel fell, since the crackle of the coms that told him the Order had died. But to see it in front of him, to know he was on his way to the New Republic, to a tribunal that could only result in his death? It is different now, when it is real, not simply some vague imagined future. 

“Tarran Hux? I'm Ben Solo.” And his voice is lighter than Hux imagined, a quick teasing lilt. Hux spits in his face. 

And Solo, Solo snarls at him, and for a moment, Hux sees death in his eyes. 

Things may not be as they seem. 

But then Solo is wiping the saliva off his face with the back of a huge hand, smiling good-naturedly at Hux, and Hux thinks he might have imagined it. 

“That wasn't very polite. But that's ok. I've made up my mind, and a little thing like you spitting on me won't change it.” And that's strange, and not what Hux expected at all. So strange, that he can't help but question. 

“Made up your mind about what?” Ben smiles, huge and warm.

“I'm going to offer you a deal.” When Hux stares, eyes wide, startled, Ben goes on. “I don't think you want to die, Tarran.” Hux shrugs, noncommittal. Of course he doesn't want to die. But he isn't sure where this is going, doesn't know what Solo wants. 

“I don't want you to die either. And that is what will happen, you know. If I let them have you.” Hux nods. Of course he knows. “So I'm going to you a choice. You can either come back to the New Republic, face judgement for your crimes, or...” And he pauses. Hux leans forward on his chair. “You can come with me to somewhere else. Somewhere I will hide you away, where they can never find you. Somewhere where they will never see you again, never know you are there. Where you will live.”

Hux feels a little lightheaded. 

There must be a catch. 

And he asks Solo, voice trembling. Solo stares for a moment, then a wide smile spreads across his lips. A real smile, more true than the slight smirk he's been affecting. 

“Only this. You will let me have whatever I want from you. Whatever.” It's not even a question. This is Ben Solo, Jedi knight, Organa's son. Trained by Luke Skywalker himself. Whatever he wants, it cannot be worse than death. 

He nods. 

Solo grins again. 

***

It's late that night when he gets his first real hint that all may not be as it seems. 

Solo has pulled out a bottle of rum, two glasses poured on the table, filled higher than Hux thinks is truly wise. And anyway – Jedi don't drink. 

Do they?

Solo certainly seems to, slamming the rum back with a long swallow, throat working in great gulping jumps of his adam's apple. And Hux can't help but stare as he sips his own rum. 

Solo is funny. 

A kind of biting, scathing wit that Hux is shocked to find he enjoys. And so he loosens up, starts to relax. If Solo is going to save him from the headsman, he should at least get to know the man. 

And Solo offers little about himself, but Hux says even less, so that is no concern. 

They will likely have plenty of time. 

And somehow, they both end up on the same side of the couch, and Hux is on his fourth rum and he's got his face buried in Ben's neck, licking a bruise against Ben's pale skin. And this is probably a terrible idea, but if Ben Solo is going to save him, Hux is going to be damned sure the other man enjoys the experience. 

And he's finally gotten up a good flush in Ben's skin, is certain the bruise will purple over in so short a time, but Ben's yanking his head back, hands fisted in Hux's hair, pull too harsh. 

“Hey! Be careful!” And Ben smirks down at him. 

“Worried, Tarran?” Hux shakes his head. He can give as good as he gets. “Well then.” And he's somehow, impossibly, underneath Ben on the couch, arching up under him, pawing at Ben's belt, his trousers. 

The slap, when it comes, makes his teeth rattle. 

“Did I say you could do that?” He shakes his head no. So that's how Ben wants to play things? With the alcohol humming though his veins, Hux just smiles at it. If that's what Ben wants... The next slap is eve harder. 

“Answer me when I speak to you, Tarran.” He nods. Alright. 

“Yes. Yes, Master Solo.” The pinch at his nipple is vicious, and Hux is surprised that it doesn't start bleeding.

“Don't fucking patronize me Hux. It's Ben, or Solo if you fucking must.” And somehow, hearing the profanities drip out of Ben's mouth, Hux is even harder than before. So he simply moans, arches up into Ben's tight grip. Ben groans too.

Then they're stripping out of their respective clothing, baring themselves, and Hux's pants get stuck for a moment around his ankles. But then they're off, and he's reaching out finger to try to touch Ben's incredible abs. But Ben bats his hand away, slams it into the mattress. Fingers push into Hux's ass, harsh, unyielding, and Hux wants to cry, to scream. 

Only he doesn't. Instead, he fucks back onto Ben's hand, fingers slick with some sort of lube. Fucks back until it actually starts to feel good, until Ben caresses the tip of his ring finger across Hux's prostate and Hux yelps. 

The fingers are gone then, and Ben is crowding him forward, folding his legs up near his chest. And then there's a thick cock against Hux's hole, and Hux wonders, vaguely, dazedly, what this would feel like in a bed, with his hands wrapped in that beautiful hair. Wonders if he'll get to find out. 

And then Ben is sliding in, and he's biting down on Hux's shoulder, and there's a wet smear of blood. And when he pulls out, Hux can feel his flesh tear. And he wants to scream. Pleasure too much, pain too much. 

And then Ben is fucking him, in and out at a pace that neither of them will be able to sustain for long, weather through without coming. But Hux is find with that, with the pulsing pleasure that races through him. And Ben is too, if the look on his face is anything to go by. 

Then he wraps a hand around Hux's cock, and Hux's eyes roll up in his head. It's too much, too good. And Ben is bowing down over him, mouth spilling whispering breaths across Hux's neck. And Hux is suddenly coming, surprising as summer shower. And as it wracks his body, spine arching and hips flexing uncontrollably, he can hear Ben talking, swearing. 

“Mine, all mine now, Tarran. I'm gonna do whatever I want, and you won't stop me. Fuck. Yes. This is what I needed, what I need. Whatever I want. You're gonna be so good for me, aren't you?” And Ben is coming, with a muttered _mine_ that echos in Hux's ears even after it dies away, and a look in his eyes that Hux has never seen before in anyone's. 

And Hux wonders if he has made a mistake. If perhaps, being owned by Ben Solo may prove a fate worse that a New Republic tribunal.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat about anything! [@saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


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